Troy had re-entered the portals of his Alma Mater with a certain swagger but no sense of nostalgia or pride. He had hated school. But, knowing from an early age what he wanted to be when he grew up, he had worked hard at the subjects that bored him as well as the few (social studies, computer science) that, just about, held his interest. He also avoided mixing with any hard-line bunking-off troublemakers. His ferocity at games, which kept him off the sports field almost as much as on, also kept him free of the jeering hassle any consistent attempts at serious study would otherwise have provoked. Now, striding over stained brown haircord down well-remembered corridors he muttered, ‘God, I loathe this place.’
Barnaby had finished his own schooling in the early fifties, before the local grammar had been integrated, but his daughter had been through the comprehensive system, eventually winning an exhibition to Cambridge. The Barnabys had been members of the PTA during her time at ‘this place’ and both had been impressed by the dedication of the teachers - often, it had seemed to them, in the face of overwhelming odds.
‘Cully came here, didn’t she, chief?’
‘That’s right.’ Barnaby spoke abruptly. He had never become indifferent to the wistful leer in men’s voices when they spoke his daughter’s name.
The head, Mr Hargreave, had vacated his office for their purposes and Miss Panter showed them in. Brian took the chair behind the desk, although a two-seater settee and large armchair were both empty. Barnaby, mindful of his earlier experience, sat on the edge of the sofa. Miss Panter returned with a tray of tea and some Garibaldi biscuits. Troy poured out, setting a cup in front of Brian.
‘There you go, Mr Clapton.’
‘What’s all this about?’
Barnaby thought the man’s bewilderment was probably genuine. The murder had not made the one o’clock news and, according to the main office, Brian had received no telephone calls that morning. Troy was taking advantage of the lull to despatch as many Garibaldis as he was able without appearing to push them non-stop into his mouth. He was starving. Parched too (down went the tea), plus, needless to say, desperate for a fag. He caught the chief’s eye and replaced morsel number five on the plate.
‘Delicious,’ he said, opening his notebook. ‘Squashedfly biscuits we used to call them.’
‘I’m afraid,’ began Barnaby, when Brian had finished his tea, ‘that I have some bad news.’
‘Mandy!’ The cup clattered into the saucer, spilling the dregs.
‘No, no.’ Barnaby hastily offered reassurance. ‘Nothing to do with your daughter.’
Troy watched as a little colour crept back into Brian’s deathly countenance. I shall be like that, he thought, when Talisa Leanne starts school. I shall never have a moment’s peace. The insight affected him physically, a cold gripe in the guts. As he struggled to put it aside Barnaby was explaining the reason for their visit.
‘Gerald!’ Amazement had barely registered before excited, almost pleasurable, interest took its place. The word ‘gleeful’ might have been appropriate. He said, in a crisp, self-satisfied manner, ‘I myself was with him only yesterday.’
‘We’re aware of that, Mr Clapton.’ Barnaby, who had no time for false displays of grief, had even less time for naked enjoyment in the face of violent death. ‘Could you tell—’
‘It was a most peculiar evening.’
‘Really? In what way?’
‘Tensions. Hidden tensions.’ Brian tossed back long but sparse ginger hair. ‘Visible none the less to a really perceptive person. Which of course, as a writer, one has to be.’
Barnaby nodded encouragingly and sat back to be a bit more comfy. This one was plainly going to run and run.
‘I’m in charge of drama here ...’
Brian spoke at length and was very frank, as people often are who have little worth concealing. Troy took advantage, resting his Biro, and managed to put away two more squashed-fly biscuits before the chief steered it all back to hidden tensions. Perhaps Mr Clapton could expand?
‘Gerald was behaving very oddly. Unnaturally quiet. And couldn’t wait to get rid of us.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Spent the whole time gushing over our visiting “celebrity”. What a reactionary fossil he turned out to be. Not a clue about contemporary drama. Not surprising, the stuff he churns out.’
‘You don’t admire Mr Jennings’ novels?’
‘Never read them. Got better things to do with my time.’
‘Can you recall who first suggested inviting him?’ Barnaby watched Brian’s reaction write itself across his face. He didn’t know. He hated to admit he didn’t know. But if he made an answer up he might be proved wrong, thus losing face even more notably.
‘You’ll have to leave that with me, chief inspector.’ Brian stroked his beard thoughtfully. He had grown it as soon as he was physically able, to hide the numerous large pink shiny warts on his chin.
Troy, who had got Brian well sussed, curled his lip. He could just see the little squit asking round, finding the answer and phoning in having ‘just remembered’. What a piss artist.
‘Did you talk to Mr Hadleigh during the course of the evening? Get any idea why he was so withdrawn?’
‘Not really. The conversation was general. As I’ve already explained.’ He spoke tersely and glanced at his watch.
‘Do you have any idea who might be responsible for Mr Hadleigh’s death?’
‘Me?’ In the centre of his bushy beard Brian’s wet, pink lips rounded to a wet, pink O, like the orifice of some tentacular sea creature. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d’ve thought the question pretty clear, sir,’ murmured Troy.
‘But you’re surely not—I mean ...’
Here we go, thought Troy, pinching the final biscuit. Altogether now, one, two, three: break-in, break-in. Wasn’t it a break-in? Brian did not let him down.
‘There was no sign of a forced entry, sir,’ replied Barnaby, omitting for the moment the matter of an unsecured kitchen. ‘Would you describe Mr Hadleigh as a cautious person?’
‘In what way?’
‘Might he for instance be likely to open the door to just anyone late at night?’
‘Doubt it. You know what they’re like, the professional classes. Piling up more stuff than any person could possibly need in one lifetime then frightened to death someone else might get a bite of their cherry.’ Troy snorted at the unconscious double entendre then turned his snort into a cough. ‘He’d got a door chain, window locks, burglar alarm. They all have round the Green.’
‘Given the present climate,’ said Barnaby dryly, ‘they’d be foolish to do otherwise.’
‘But all this hardware’s just a challenge to a really enterprising kid,’ cried Brian. ‘I’ve tried to explain this but will they listen?’ He sighed briefly over the intransigence of the bourgeoisie. ‘You should see Laura Hutton’s place - been there yet?’ Barnaby shook his head. ‘Like the Bastille.’
‘She’s probably got a lot of fancy pieces,’ said Troy. ‘Being in the trade, like.’
‘Some trade. Ripping off pensioners then selling the stuff at fifty times the price.’
‘An attractive woman all the same,’ murmured Barnaby, recalling his purchase of Joyce’s footstool.
‘If you like tall redheaded icebergs with more money than they know what to do with.’ If? thought Troy. If ? This man was round the twist. ‘Personally I’ve always found her completely unreal.’
‘You were Mr Hadleigh’s nearest neighbour—’
‘Only geographically. We didn’t mix.’
‘He was a widower, I understand. Would you happen to know if he was ... well ... emotionally involved with anyone at the time of his death?’
‘If you mean having it off,’ said Brian, with forthright contempt, ‘why don’t you say so? The answer’s no. At least not with anyone in Midsomer Worthy.’